tellytubby101: ([Avengers])
[personal profile] tellytubby101

Behind the Masks and Monitors.

Summary: Steve/Tony. Meta!AU. BNF cap_usa comes back from a 7 year hiatus, fandom rejoices, and users begin to wonder why the LJ servers are always crashing. (Hint: it isn’t the Russians this time.)

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Loki was nine when he entered foster care. Despite years of therapy, he still cannot remember a life before that. They said he was lucky to be alive, half-dead when he was discovered, almost blue from the harsh colds of one of the worst winters seen in two decades. He grew up speaking English, but could inexplicably understand Norwegian, too. Loki’s body recalled things his mind couldn’t, card tricks and sleights of hands that came to his agile fingers effortlessly. He was—and still is—very bright, an avid reader and a quick learner, wit as sharp as a blade. It needed to be because that was the only weapon he could call to arm, his form too frail to help him in the playground.
In those foster homes, he never stayed very long. His carers were well-meaning enough, but that didn’t stop him being bounced from home to home with notes of “anti-social behaviour”, “introverted”, “erratic”, and “mentally disturbed”. Schools were no better, his teachers thinking him too much for them to handle and Loki believing they were all too stupid for him to bother with. At seventeen, he left the system all together, falling off-grid and off the face of the world, feeling bitterly, bitterly alone.

It didn’t matter, because he was well-suited to the dark alleys and the cold corners of the city streets. Loki found himself almost flourishing in the nights, finally building a thin wiry frame of muscle from necessity. Around his eighteenth birthday, Loki started sliding needles into his veins. It made him feel like magic leaked out of his fingertips, the world bursting to life. He wishes he could say it made him crazy, but he isn’t sure that he was perfectly sane to begin with. He survived on stolen things, pretty jewels that caught his eyes.

After trying to hold up a convenience store, Loki finds himself in the same jail cell as Tony Stark. Even the homeless know about Stark Enterprises, the equivalent of Apple and Microsoft but so much more futuristic and visionary. They struck up a conversation over the benefits and logistics around fusion power and Loki was pretty sure he held his own against Tony. To be fair, they were both out of their mind, Tony drunk—locked up for “disorderly conduct”—and Loki crashing hard from his last high.

Morning came and Tony was bailed out, sober enough to promise Loki, “a job if he ever needed one”.

Nothing raised Loki’s suspicions faster than kindness. “Why would you ever hire me?”

“Genius recognises genius, no matter how wrecked,” Tony had said, before being quickly led away by a strikingly beautiful red-headed woman.

Six months passed, and Loki was soon involuntarily placed in rehab. Another six months passed before Loki went to the infamous Stark Tower to see whether the job offer was still open. It was. There he met Bruce Banner, who gave him a crash course in 21st century technology, and a sort of fatherly guidance he’d lacked his entire life. Tony helped him get the funding he needed, which got him his big break in creating the A.W.Casket, a type of anti-virus software that froze anything malignant before it could cause harm. Life wasn’t perfect—nothing’s perfect—but it was enough that Loki stayed.

He found fandom that same year; after accidentally stumbling across Norse Gods fanfiction—which was his fault for Googling his name, honestly—he found himself more shocked by the awful grammar than he was by the fact people were writing erotica and posting it online. After a while, he started joining in. It became almost therapeutic, inciting online anger more entertaining than television. The writing and artwork were nearly secondary to that.

What can he say? Fandom is addictive, trolling even more so, and life is too short to give a shit about what people would think.

So, Loki is turning twenty-nine, has a job where he is appreciated, a clean home and the sensation that he almost belongs.


Steve likes to sketch outside. He likes the challenge of drawing people rushing by, all too busy to pause for a moment in their lives to appreciate the beauty that surrounds them. He likes how he sometimes only gets a chance to capture the line of a jaw, the shadows of lashes on the curve of a cheek, or the form of a leg stretched out in mid-stride. He likes the fresh air, the smell of warning before the rains; he likes the shade cast by the clouds and the branches of the trees; he likes the sound of humanity and nature clashing together in the park. Steve likes a lot of things, mainly those which remind him why it’s so good to be alive.

If his hands shake a little as he sketches, well, best not to mention it.

“You must be Steve Rogers,” a woman says, sitting beside him. She is beautiful, Steve notices immediately—he may have the calloused hands of a fighter, but he has the eyes of an artist, and he sees the simple beauty in her facial symmetry and the elegance in her slender build. She seems fluid, relaxed, even as she looks at him appraisingly without a smile.

“My name is Natasha,” she says just as Bucky sits on Steve’s other side, eating a hotdog. The bench is beginning to fill a bit full now, Steve and Bucky both built with wide shoulders and packing a decent amount of muscle.

Steve closes his sketchbook and tucks his pencil behind his ear. His hand now free, he holds it out to the woman as he says, “Nice to meet you, Natasha. I’d introduce myself, but it seems you already know me.”

Bucky laughs around a mouthful of food. “Don’t treat her like a lady; she may look like one, but she ain’t one. Trust me.”

“Don’t listen to the gorilla, Steve,” Natasha says, and she shakes his hand firmly. Steve thinks he hears the soft lilt of a long forgotten accent in her voice, but he can’t be too sure. “So, you want a job?”

There is something of a challenge in her dark eyes, a familiar look that he’s seen on the faces of those half-a-dozen recruitment officers, the unspoken question of do you really think you can do this? That, beyond anything else, makes Steve straighten up in his seat and take notice.

“Yes, if that’s not too much trouble,” Steve says, and something in his tone of voice makes Bucky snort a bit, but he doesn’t break eye contact with Natasha. He holds it long enough that something of a half-smile quirks up her lips.

“Aren’t you determined?” she says, teasingly, and grins like a shark, all teeth. Her eyes look him up and down very slowly, and Steve sits calmly and waits for her to speak.

“You look very fit.”

“I am,” Steve says, unabashedly, knowing his own body and the days upon weeks upon months of effort he needed to push the strength into his bones.

There are dogs in the park today, and the sounds of their barking stop conversation momentarily. Children laugh as they run around, colourful kites trailing behind them, trying to take to the skies but failing, instead being dragged through the mud. Steve takes a deep breath and tries to force his eyes from scanning each and every one of them, tries to remember that none of them are threats, that he can stop looking for danger because he left that all behind.

“You draw?” Natasha asks out of the blue, though rather redundantly as her eyes skip down to the sketchbook still balanced on Steve’s knee.

“Yes, but I’m a bit rusty,” Steve admits. “Didn’t have much time for hobbies while on duty.”

“Ah! You were in the army.” Approval floods her voice, and he has to hide a flinch. “Are you a fighter, Steve?”

“When I have to be.”

“Well, I remember you pickin’ fights quite a bit when you were a runt,” Bucky says, now finished his hotdog. “Tiny little thing, you were. Always gettin’ ganged up on guys thrice your size with about a third of your brainpower for some noble ass reason or another. You probably got to know half the alleyway floors quite intimately ‘cause of that.”

“I don’t like bullies,” Steve says flatly. “I did it then, I’d do it now, but I don’t pick fights for fun.”

“Hm.” That stops Natasha, and there’s something calculating in her gaze now. “Would you be willing to teach others how to defend themselves?”

“Yes, of course,” Steve says. There’s no such thing as superheroes, and even if there were, they couldn’t be everywhere at once. People have the right to know how to protect themselves.

“You have a kind face,” Natasha says decisively. “I think you should be in the Avengers Initiative.” Beside him, Bucky makes a sound of agreement.

“What’s that?” Steve asks.

“The Avenger Initiative is a part of a community-based therapy course for assault victims,” Natasha explains gravely. “We teach them how to defend themselves, make them feel safe in their own skin and bones again. Of course, we need to do a few more tests to make sure you’re right for the job, psychologically speaking, but I think, from what I’ve seen today, you’ll pass.”

“Um, thanks.” He wonders for a moment whether he should say something—psychologically speaking—about how his hands shake and he wakes up in the nights, sometimes, covered in a thin film of cold sweat, still screaming at her to run, still feeling grit and blood under his nails and in his mouth—

“Nice meeting you, Rogers,” Natasha says, nodding once. Without further ado, Natasha stands and leaves in a fast paced stride that soon puts her across the park, barely visible as a streak of red and black in the distance.

Bucky slides closer to Steve. “Don’t worry about her chilly demeanour. That’s part of who she is. You’ll get used to it. How do you feel about the job?”

“This all sounds... better than I could have wished for, honestly,” Steve says, slightly dazed at the speed and briskness of the job interview, and Bucky claps him on the back, hard.

“Welcome back to civilian life, Cap,” Bucky says cheerfully. “Good to see even out of uniform you’re still going to be looking out for the little guy.”

One of the kites, coloured red, white and blue, finally lifts from the mud and into the sky. The children whoop with laughter at the accomplishment and it’s a little picturesque. Of course, that’s when it starts to rain.


friendly neighbourhood stalker (spideysenses) wrote in ohnotheydidnt,


This is simply confirmation of the inevitable:

Marvel’s S.H.I.E.L.D is becoming a movie.

As one of the most successful long-running comics in the Marvel franchise, it has already been adapted into a well-received animated series and last year ran the final season of its critically acclaimed, award-winning live-action TV miniseries on HBO. Really, at this point it was not a matter of if, but when.

According to this article, Marvel executives are already in talks with potential directors and producers, the favourite to direct being Joss Whedon. Several actors, supposedly including Samuel L. Jackson, are rumoured to already be auditioning for the highly sought after roles of Special Agent Phillip McCoul and the Head of S.H.I.E.L.D, Nicholas Joseph. Initial fears of white-washing the cast were quickly shot down, and Joseph will retain his dark skin from the transition from comics to the big screen.

We are planning to find two guys with the same chemistry as seen in the original and other adaptations,” says Stan Lee. “The early drafts of the screenplay look promising. Here at Marvel, we acknowledge how important it is to keep that dynamic working.” As for the details of the plot, he remained infuriatingly tight lipped, though implying it will be more of an origins story than the miniseries or the animated cartoon.

(Read more...)


(2738 comments) – (Post a new comment)


Despite having enough money to own several houses, Tony lives in a residential apartment block. Granted, he technically owns the entire building, but he prefers to live in the small apartment. Which may sound strange, since Tony hardly conforms to a Spartan lifestyle, the interior design sleek and modern. Surfaces are covered by copper wires, metal tools and delicate half-built microchips, or a collection of some of the most advanced technology commercially available (and a few things only the army are meant to have). It wouldn’t be difficult to move to a mansion, a penthouse, a house in the countryside or a holiday house by the sea and be served by butlers and maids if he wanted, but when it boils down to it, a mansion—a penthouse, a house in the countryside, a holiday house by the sea—will just be mostly empty space, gathering dust and lost cobwebs.

If there’s one thing that can be utterly detrimental to his state of mind, it’s loneliness and silence. It is part of the reason he always has music playing in his workshop. It is part of the reason why he has Dummy and Jarvis to keep him company. It is part of the reason he loves the hustle and bustle of a busy city, constantly alive with lights and people and a rush, energy flowing in from every corner, leaking untapped but never draining away completely. Also, the commute to work is, at most, a five minute walk that passes two bakeries and an excellent tucked-away coffee-shop.

In fact, he’s eating a bagel from one of the bakeries as he walks home, the afternoon light warm on his face. Most people would assume that Tony is leaving work early—which isn’t untrue, but Tony had worked at Stark Tower through the previous night and probably wouldn’t have left if it hadn’t been for Pepper forcibly kicking him out. (You didn’t say no to Pepper Potts. Her heels hurt.)

Right now, a long, hot shower seems extremely appealing, as is the thought of possibly being able to curl up on the couch with Dummy and Jarvis and maybe watch something completely mindless on the television—there’s a 90% chance he’ll shamelessly choose a reality show for the cat fights—until he can fall asleep. Tony never sleeps easily in the dark, because it leaves him alone with his thoughts, and that always sends him off on a completely unhelpful tangent, with some ideas that just need attention. Some of his most brilliant moments were when he was working on less than an hour of sleep and a litre of caffeine.

Then again, it also led to horrific creations, such as the toaster-microwave-kettle, or the unforgettable fridge-oven. (On low levels of sleep, Tony had a preference of creating Frankenstein monsters from the parts of other machines. He really, really hopes there’s no hidden psychological meaning to that.)

Tony enters the building, nods to the doorman, and steps inside the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor. As the elevator doors are closing—Tony is starting to wonder about the difficulties of rewiring the controls and that is somewhere he needs to steer his thoughts far, far away from—a hand quickly shoves in-between them, stopping them.

“Sorry, sorry,” says a breathless voice, and a man enters the lift with a guileless smile and stunningly blue eyes. Something perks up within Tony because he can always appreciate beautiful things, and this stranger is very easy on the eyes. Tony has a very wide net for what he considers attractive, but he has certain types that always catch his eye. For women, he finds a confident, authoritative red head with killer legs always makes him look twice. (Saying such to both Pepper and Natasha has earned him a good slap on both occasions, but c’est la vie.)

For men, well, he likes them blond, tanned and tall. Blue eyes aren’t a prerequisite, but definitely a bonus. Tony’s gaze lingers on how the white t-shirt clings to the lines of hard muscle across the man’s back and shoulders, the cut of his black slacks making his ass look fantastic.

Before Tony opens his mouth to say something doubtlessly witty and smooth, he realises two things in quick succession. One, he still hasn’t finished swallowing the last bite of his bagel, and the second, more pressing point, is that he can’t quite remember the last time he showered. Or shaved. Or brushed his hair. Oh God, he must look like a hobo. Please let him not smell like one, too.

The lift doors open, and unfortunately the stranger strides out before they can say anything. Probably for the best, if he thinks about it. It takes Tony an additional three seconds to realise that it is his floor, too, and he hurries to get out before the doors close again. He fishes his keys out of his pockets and he’s halfway opened his door when he notices the man standing beside him with a small smile.

“Hi, I’m Steve,” he says, voice friendly, and Tony blinks dumbly at the outstretched hand. Should you still shake someone’s hand when yours is coated with bagel crumbs and engine grease?

Steve slowly pulls back his hand before Tony can make up his mind, disappointment flashing over his features. He adds, “I’m your new neighbour.”

“Is James moving out?” Tony asks, surprised, because that’s the first thing he says to this handsome man. He makes the mental note to bang his head against a solid surface when he is alone.

“No, no,” Steve says. “I’m moving in with him.”

“Christ, where are my manners?” Tony finally says, rubbing his hand over his eyes—yep, there’s definitely grease on his fingers—and grinning apologetically. “Twenty hour shift scrambles the brain. I’m Anthony, but everyone calls me Tony. Nice to meet you. Er, welcome to the building?”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Steve asks, sounding more amused than anything else.

“I’m really not, sorry.” Tony shrugs, a small smile on his face. They spend an awkward pause looking at each other before Tony breaks eye contact. “So, moving in with James?”


“Lucky guy.”

“Oh, we’re not—”

Tony waves off the rest of the explanation. Heterosexual, he figures, which is good to know in advance before he tried a move. Steve looks nice enough, but some guys got really touchy when any threat to their masculinity came into the fray. Internalising a sigh—at lost opportunities and the such—Tony rocks back on the balls of his feet and lets himself slouch a little.

“So what brings you to the neighbourhood?” Tony asks, curious.

Steve shuffles his feet, looking down a vaguely discomforted. “I just finished a tour of Afghanistan.”

“Impressive,” Tony says sincerely enough, even though the mere mention of Afghanistan makes him think of Stark printed in white on the metal sides of bombs that never should have been built, in the hands of those who certainly did not deserve it, and the cruel eyes of Obadiah, someone he should have been able to trust, lying to him, funnelling fuel to a warzone already lit ablaze with blood and broken dreams.

“Just doing my part,” Steve mumbles, and Tony has to blink a few times to get back to reality.

“If you ever need the number to a good Chinese place,” Tony says, “feel free to give my door a knock.” The offer is given earnestly enough, and Tony wonders whether it will ever be taken.

“I’m thinkin’ Steve’ll be right with me,” James says, interrupting, and Tony looks at him with hands raised in mock surrender.

“It’s only a suggestion.”

“Bucky,” Steve says to James, “lay off Tony.”

“The guy’s an asshole,” James says pleasantly through gritted teeth, voice full of venom.

Tony feels like he has to point out, “Still here, guys.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says quickly, discreetly elbowing his roommate. “Bucky’s tired—”

“—I’m really not,” James interrupts, scowling, and Tony decides it’s about time for that shower now. “For the record, I meant what I said.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says lightly. “He’s always been like that. See you around, maybe.” When Steve turns to glare at James, Tony quickly sticks his tongue out at him, stepping into his apartment before his actions can be called to attention. Even with the closed door, Tony thinks he can hear James’ garbled shout of frustration.

It’s the little things in life you have to appreciate.

Speaking of which, it really, really is time for that shower.


To: Pepper
From: Tony

Did you do a background check on my new neighbour?

To: Tony
From: Pepper

Steve Rogers, no criminal record, long run in the army with many honours. He’s clear.

To: Pepper
From: Tony

As much as I wouldn’t mind waking up to him, he won’t try murder me in my sleep?

To: Tony
From: Pepper

No. I’ve been VERY careful after that incident; believe me, no one’s making it past security again.

To: Pepper
From: Tony

Fantastic. Would it kill you to green light a few more people like HIM to the building? ;D

To: Tony
From: Pepper

Can you promise to keep it in your pants?

To: Pepper
From: Tony

I’ll try my best.

To: Pepper
From: Tony

Let the record state that I didn’t promise anything, Pepper.


“Why were you so rude?” Steve asks, a note of reproach in his voice. They’re inside the apartment—Steve can’t quite think of it as his apartment, let alone his home, just yet—and Bucky is sitting amidst the carnage of an unfinished IKEA bookshelf.

“Tony’s an asshole, I told you,” Bucky says unapologetically. He is looking at a part of the shelving and glancing back to the diagram in the manual with a puzzled expression. “Give ‘im an inch and he’ll take a mile.”

“What did he do?”

For a moment, it looks as though Bucky is searching for the right words before he shakes his head and waves off the question. “Never mind that, just help me unpack y’books, would ya?”

Sighing, Steve decides to acquiescence for the moment, knowing which battles to pick. He retreats to the few boxes he took out of storage. Ripping off the tape of the topmost box and glancing at its contents makes a wave of nostalgia hit him. He picks up several books, fingers gently tracing the gold lettering of the leather-bound covers. The edges of the paper are fragile, well-thumbed but clearly cared for. Most of them are sketchbooks, the ones he used to take everywhere. Some of them are non-fiction, mostly focusing on renaissance artists or thick volumes covering World War II and the Cold War.

It’s nice to finally get some of his stuff back. He’s been living here nearly a week now, but he’s barely had more to his name than the clothes on his back.

Another box he finds filled with old comics—mainly S.H.I.E.L.D and Superman, he has always been a sucker for the classics—and he remembers the stories with a fond smile. It was back when he used to know the inside of his local hospital as well as his bedroom, when his crooked teeth were being aligned with braces, when he used to carry an inhaler everywhere. Steve remembers wanting to be a hero, and despite all the shiny medals he’s earned, he really wonders whether he’s deserving of being called a hero.

Nicholas Joseph’s thunderous expression stares up from one of the covers, and Steve involuntarily blushes, remembering a particularly explicit fanvid he had seen recently that had to classify as soft porn. Someone had recommended a few videos from iamironman—a name that cropped up a few times—and he quickly learned that reading the summaries and warnings were rather important these days. He is sure fandom wasn’t so forward in his hey-day, and then smiles, feeling older than his twenty-seven years.

Bucky erupts with a variety of loud and creative curses, finally kicking the box in which the bookshelf came in. He stalks over to the kitchen and asks whether Steve wants a beer. Steve nods, and returns to opening more of the boxes, looking for the one with his clothes and trinkets.

Another one has a few more books; bold lettering identifies one as The Art of War, an old favourite, which Steve flips through absently. A photo slips out from between the pages, a long forgotten bookmark. There’s a crease down the middle from where it has been folded, and a coffee stain in one corner, but two faces still smile brightly, frozen in a captured moment. Steve doesn’t realise he’s trembling until Bucky directs him to one of the couch chairs.

He’s saying something, but Steve can’t quite hear him, still staring at the photo. She’s happy, he’s thinking, and that is such a shock to him now, because all he can remember is her face grim with determination. Ringing fills his ears, but there’s a pressure all around him, like he’s trapped underwater and there isn’t enough air.

When Steve finally refocuses on his surroundings, Bucky is there, gripping his hand tightly and murmuring, “I’m right ‘ere, bud, stay with me now.”

“Sorry, I can’t—no—” Steve chokes out, voice hoarse and thick, but his eyes are dry, which is already an improvement. “This just caught me by surprise.”

“Should’ve checked,” Bucky says, and he sounds angry at himself, which is ridiculous. There’s only so much one person can do, and Steve feels like Bucky’s already gone beyond that. Carefully, Bucky pulls the photo from Steve’s too-tight grip, and Steve finds himself letting it slip through his fingers.

“I’m right now,” Steve says, rubbing his eyes and standing up. “I’m going to go finish pulling out the rest of my old stuff, maybe get it finished by the time the sun sets.”

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice is a little soft, lost a bit of its harshness. “I—er, d’you wanna talk ‘bout this?”

“I’ve got a psychiatrist, Bucky.” One with huge glasses and wide eyes and a flat, calming voice that always encourages him to talk about his feelings and open up—a man who has probably never seen the battlefield, never seen what it’s like to watch someone die in your arms, and Steve has a lot of trouble believing that anything he says could ever truly be empathised with, which really doesn’t help his “recovery process”, but lately Steve finds he cares less and less about that.

“I’m not pretendin’ to be a shrink,” Bucky growls. “I’m your best friend.”

“I—Give me a moment,” Steve says, tries to infuse an apology in his voice at the flash of concern he sees on Bucky’s face, but the air feels too hot and heavy right now, his mouth try and the faint taste of dirt at the back of his throat. He walks towards the balcony and hopes his breathing stays steady. It doesn’t.

The apartment is reasonably large, big enough for two people to comfortably live inside it. He was so sure Bucky would hate the intrusion, but he insisted Steve take the spare bedroom. In the end, he caved, because how much does a soldier earn when they’re not at war? (How long could he live alone to wallow in his own thoughts?) Really, it’s perfect. The furniture in the rooms are simple and placed so that one could move around them easily without ever feeling trapped. The door is always within view of the main living areas, and the windows can be covered by dark, heavy curtains. Steve knows that with more time, he can feel safe here.

Standing outside on the balcony, Steve looks down at the ground three stories away and thinks about how a drop that far could kill someone. There’s a tree just to the side of him though, with thick sturdy branches, and he thinks that if he ever needs to escape, he could just climb down it. There’s also some piping on the walls reaching the ground, and a little to the right, at a bit of a stretch, an emergency fire escape. Stop finding the exits, he berates himself, but habits are harder to kick than he would have imagined.

The shadow of Stark Tower falls across the apartment block at this time, so the air is chillier than he expects. He doesn’t go back inside though, not yet, and slowly enough, the fresh air seems to be doing him some good. Amidst the sounds of cars and the general never-ceasing chatter of humanity, Steve thinks he hears something else—

I’m on my way, from misery to happiness todaaay,” he hears sung in an off-key baritone, accompanied by the sound of running water. “Ah-huh, ah-huh, ah-huh, ah-huh.”

After a few minutes of listening to this carefree rendition of the Proclaimers, Steve finally recognises the voice as Tony, his neighbour, and a smile comes unbidden to his lips. He spends another moment listening to Tony sing in the shower—which, later, he realises is probably creepier than is socially acceptable—before heading inside to help Bucky with the bookshelf. With their combined efforts, they finish building it before night falls – though admittedly, it stands a little crooked. That’s alright though; they’re happy to see it standing at all.

Twitter Results for: #failLJ

@pseudozeus: what I hate even more than the #FailWhale is #FranktheGoat #failLJ

@spideysenses: Russians at it again? #failLJ

@widowmaker: LJ just IS #failLJ sometimes.

@jekyllhyde: DDoS don’t normally last this long, what’s going on? #failLJ

@iamironman: If #failLJ doesn’t work itself out soon, I’m going to hack the servers and see wtf is happening



thelady-s reblogged don-blake                                                                                       57 notes       reblog       






I always feel as though there is a mass exodus from LiveJournal
when Frank the Goat appears. He is a mystifying mascot, a creature
that drains the loyalty of those its eyes falls upon.

Can we not banish him? Surely a monster like he requires rest
and then we can strike and delete him from the mainframe!

I don’t think it would be that easy—wait, this is LJ servers we’re talking about.
If I find the good bottle of wine later, I might give it a crack.

However, I doubt it would help. People are pretty fickle and online our attention
spans are even shorter. Of course people are going to wander over to DW or Ao3
when the servers are down. Heck, we’re both on Tumblr right now.

Tumblr is a fascinating and innovative web that provides an interesting way to view
hilarious macros involving felines and other such adorable creatures with intentionally
misspelt exclamations. I do not believe it a betrayal of LJ since it is more known for
its blogging capabilities.

pseudo_zeus, really, only you would explain memes like that. -_-

To quote silvertongue... “I DO WHAT I WANT!”

#don-blake is adorable #I’d ship you two


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